The Reluctant Vampire Affair
by Nancy Kaminski
Summary: Crossover with the Man from UNCLE. Reclusive Nick Forrester accidentally gets involved with UNCLE agents Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin and their fight against international evil---Thrush and its new associate, master vampire Lucien Lacroix..


The Reluctant Vampire Affair  
  
by Nancy Kaminski, August 1997  
  
A Man From UNCLE/Forever Knight Crossover Story  
  
For the benefit of the younger members of the list, "The  
Man from UNCLE" was a very popular, cultish TV show which  
ran from 1964 to 1968. It was about the battle between good  
and evil, personified by UNCLE (The United Network Command  
for Law and Enforcement) and THRUSH (The Technological  
Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the  
Subjugation of Humanity--how's that for a name!). UNCLE was  
a multinational organization which could operate all over  
the world, owing allegiance to no one country. UNCLE's  
staff was drawn from every nation.  
  
The stars of the show were Robert Vaughn, playing American  
Napoleon Solo, the urbane, ladykiller secret agent, and  
David McCallum as his Russian partner, Illya Kuryakin, the  
techno-whiz and man of mystery.  
  
At the time, pairing American and Russian characters  
was a fairly radical thing to do, considering the state of  
the cold war at the time; it was not unlike Bill Cosby's  
groundbreaking leading role in "I Spy."  
  
Their boss was Alexander Waverly, played by venerable  
English actor Leo G. Carroll. Mr. Waverly would sit in his  
large office with the revolving table, puff on his pipe,  
and send his agents out to face danger and malevolent  
villains bent on world-shattering mischief.  
  
The show was awash with nifty, James Bond style gadgets.  
The main props were the pen communicator, a transceiver of  
unlimited range that looked like a fountain pen, and the  
UNCLE Special, an automatic pistol that could be converted  
into a sort of rifle with the additional of a few parts and  
a really nifty night vision scope. There was clever banter  
between the two stars, over-the-top villains, girls in  
miniskirts, and a characteristic "revolving pan" style of  
scene changing camera work that was quite novel at the  
time. All these factors made the show an enormous hit, and  
the stars themselves mobbed at every public appearance.   
  
David McCallum, especially, was the favorite of adolescent  
girls everywhere (myself included). His shaggy blond good  
looks, mysterious air, indeterminate accent (Russian?  
British? What?), and propensity to dress entirely in black  
made him completely irresistible. Sound familiar? He was  
very Nickish, in a less angsty way.  
  
Anyway, UNCLE had their North American Headquarters in New  
York City, quite close to the United Nations. So the  
revelation in "Close Call" that Nick had a New York  
driver's license from the 1960s was just too good to pass  
up--I had to get Nick, Napoleon and Illya together for an  
adventure (or "affair" as each UNCLE episode was entitled).  
This story is the result.   
  
Enjoy your trip back into the Swingin' Sixties! As Nick  
once said about the Middle Ages, "I enjoyed them!"  
  
  
  
New York City, 1965  
  
"'S', before," Napoleon Solo opened his eyes and lifted his  
head to smirk at his partner. "Ha, didn't see that coming,  
did you." He let his head fall back on the hard thin pillow  
and rearranged his lanky frame more comfortably on the  
narrow army cot. "Your turn."  
  
Illya Kuryakin frowned, his eyes remaining fixed on the  
warehouse across the street. "Why do we always have to play  
Ghosts in English?" he complained. "You have an unfair  
home advantage. How about a neutral language--say, French,  
or German?"  
  
Solo shook his head. "Nope. 'When in America, do as the  
Americans do.' Your turn."  
  
Illya thought, then said, "T, after." A slight smile  
twitched at his mouth.   
  
"S, M, O, L, T," Solo spelled slowly. He paused and  
thought, staring at the cobwebbed ceiling. "That's not a  
word--you're making it up. Not an English word," he  
amended. "I challenge."  
  
"You lose--it is a legal word." The blond agent replied.  
"You had your chance last year in Seattle, but you wanted  
to go barhopping after we wrapped up the Barker affair."  
  
"What do you mean 'I had my chance?' What's that got to do  
with S-M-O-L-T?"  
  
"If you had gone to look at the salmon run instead of the  
night life, you would have found out about smolts." He  
paused for effect, but the other UNCLE agent remained  
silent. He sighed. "A smolt is a very young salmon. There  
was a sign next to the fish ladder explaining the life  
cycle of the salmon. They start out as smolts."  
  
Solo scowled. "Damn smart Russian."  
  
Illya said mildly, "Don't blame me, blame your National  
Park Service. They put up the sign. I didn't know about  
them until I saw it." He held up a hand. "We have some  
activity."  
  
Solo rolled off the cot with a fluid movement and joined  
his partner at the partially curtained window. Silently  
they watched a dingy garage door in the warehouse across  
the street jerk upwards. The nose of a late-model Cadillac  
convertible, a fashionable teal green, slid into the narrow  
street. It paused while the driver triggered the remote  
control that closed the garage, then drove off into the  
night, its taillights twin red eyes that disappeared around  
the next corner.  
  
***  
  
The UNCLE agents had been watching the warehouse for three  
days, the end of a trail that had started in a seemingly  
innocent electronics plant in Muncie, Indiana. The trail  
had continued on a convoluted path through Chicago, Saint  
Louis, and Minneapolis, and then finally ended up here, in  
a seedy warehouse in Brooklyn.   
  
They were following the third of a series of hijacked  
shipments of XCS-112s, a newly-developed laser  
communication device that was intended for ultra-secret  
NATO installations in Europe. By the time UNCLE had been  
brought in, two shipments of the valuable, rare devices had  
disappeared en route to New York, where they were to be  
flown to NATO Headquarters in Belgium. Both times, the  
unmarked trucks, with the drivers and guards, were found in  
remote wayside rests off secondary highways. None of the  
men had any memory of what had happened to them.  
  
NATO could only speculate on who was behind the hijackings.  
None of the Western intelligence agencies reported any  
information indicating that the Eastern Bloc or China, the  
most obvious candidates, were involved.  
  
UNCLE had had better luck. An intercepted THRUSH communique  
sent from the Dusseldorf satrap to Amsterdam contained the  
two words, 'device' and 'Muncie.' Section 4 had put the  
pieces together and concluded that THRUSH was involved.  
Acting on that scanty information, Alexander Waverly, head  
of UNCLE's North American Operations, put his most  
experienced agents on the case--Napoleon Solo and Illya  
Kuryakin.   
  
***  
  
Two Weeks Earlier  
Highwood Electronics, Muncie, Indiana  
  
Robert Anderson, a thin, balding man in his forties, and  
the president of Highwood Electronics, the company that  
manufactured the XCS-112, was understandably upset. "None  
of my people can be involved with this," he fretted,  
knotting his hands together nervously. He swiveled  
agitatedly back and forth in his chair, looking out the  
plate glass window overlooking the plant floor. He gestured  
at the assembly line below. "I've known each of my one  
hundred fifty employees for years--I hired every one of  
them. None of them would turn traitor..."  
  
Solo held up his hand reassuringly. "We're not saying that,  
Mr. Anderson. In fact, we don't really suspect anyone here.  
But we have to make sure, and this is the logical place to  
start."  
  
"Yes, but I opened all my records to those Army  
investigators last month. What more do you want from me?"  
  
Illya picked up the briefcase he had set on the floor next  
to his chair. "We want to add a little something to the  
next lot to be sent out." He fished around for a moment and  
then held up a clear plastic tube containing what looked  
like a capacitor. "We want to include one of these in each  
XCS-112 going out next week." He held up his hand to still  
Anderson's protest. "They're well-shielded, and won't  
interfere with the working of the device. And they'll be  
removed when they reach their destination--that is, if they  
reach their destination. Until then they'll masquerade as  
just another component."  
  
Anderson took the proffered tube gingerly and examined the  
tiny device with an engineer's eyes. "What does it do?"   
  
"It broadcasts a high-frequency signal once every thirty  
minutes on a very narrow band. It will help us follow the  
shipment from a discreet distance."  
  
"Are you sure it won't interfere with anything? We're  
manufacturing to mil spec, you know, and we'd face huge  
penalties if we don't comply with every contract line  
item..." Anderson gave the tube back to Illya. Apparently  
his bottom line was just as important to him as the  
integrity of his employees.  
  
"We've fixed that with the NATO contract manager. You won't  
be penalized if anything happens because of this." Illya  
assured the worried manager.   
  
Ultimately it was the president, with assistance from  
Illya, who installed the tracking devices late the next  
night. "Good thing we don't run a third shift," he grumbled  
as he soldered the silvery cylinders to one of the  
less-densely populated circuit boards in each of the five  
XCS-112s destined to be shipped in two days. "Good thing I  
used to build boards for a living..." He concentrated on  
his task. "There. Last one." He yawned and sat back while  
Illya screwed the housing back in place. "Now all they have  
to do is go through one last burn-in cycle, and they're out  
of here."   
  
Illya flicked on a hand-held receiver and pressed a test  
button. After a few seconds, a blip showed on the small  
circular screen. "There, it's transmitting. The internal  
power source should be good for two weeks--plenty of time  
to see where they go." He turned off the receiver. "Let's  
call it a night."  
  
***  
  
Just like the other two shipments, this one went astray.  
Unlike the other two shipments, however, this one had the  
tracers faithfully bleeping every half hour to report on  
their whereabouts. The UNCLE agents were too far behind to  
see the truck actually taken, but they did manage to catch  
up to the thieves in a truck stop and surreptitiously  
photograph them while they ate their bacon and eggs.  
  
Three weary days of driving later, the agents'  
communicators warbled simultaneously. Solo was taking his  
turn at the wheel--he flapped his hand at his partner to  
answer, then turned off the radio, cutting off the nasal  
announcer reading the swap ads for the town of  
Greenleafton. Illya fished out his communicator, extended  
the antenna, and said, "Kuryakin here."  
  
Mr. Waverly's voice said tinnily, "Good afternoon, Mr.  
Kuryakin. Is Mr. Solo there?"  
  
"Yes, sir, he's driving."  
  
"Section 4 has identified one of your hijackers from the  
microfilm you sent us. The red-headed fellow is Rollo  
Halvorsen, a small-time THRUSH operative, used mainly for  
courier activities. The other is as yet unknown to us--  
we've sent his photo on to NATO to see if he's in  
their files. Where are you at the present time?"  
  
Illya consulted his map. "We're seventy-five miles north of  
Mason City, sir. We appear to be heading to Minneapolis.  
We're about a half mile behind the hijackers."  
  
"Very well, I'll have Halvorsen's file transmitted to the  
Minneapolis office. Arrange with them to deliver it to  
you."  
  
"Thank you, sir. We'll keep you advised."  
  
"You do that." Waverly ended the transmission in his  
characteristically abrupt way.   
  
"Well, at least we know who one of them is," Illya said  
philosophically as he tried to stretch in the cramped  
rental car. "Now if they would just stop leading us on the  
Cook's tour of the Midwest. I've seen enough soybean fields  
to last me at least a year."  
  
"Is that what this green stuff is?" Solo asked, glancing at  
the endless gently rolling fields on either side of the  
highway. He grimaced as an aromatic, manure-scented breeze  
blew through the open car window.  
  
"Yes, Napoleon, this green stuff is soybeans. The tall  
green stuff is corn. The spotted black and white things are  
cows."   
  
"Thank you, Farmer Brown. Now, just tell me we're coming to  
a town with a population higher than fifty soon. Too much  
fresh air makes me nervous."  
  
***  
  
The agents continued following the hijacked shipment  
through a stopover in Minneapolis. The hijackers appeared  
to be waiting for instructions--they laid low at a cheap  
motel near the airport, which proclaimed its tenuous  
connection with air travel by displaying a battered Cessna  
150 precariously perched on the roof of the office.  
  
"That's what I like about this job," Napoleon grumbled as  
he inspected their room's pair of sagging beds. "The  
glamour of travel, the opportunity to see new, exciting  
places..."  
  
"Yes, but just think, we have a fine view, not only of the  
hijacker's room, but of the airplane on the roof, which is  
a novel sight, no matter how you look at it," Illya  
answered reasonably. A jet thundered overhead, and the lamp  
on the night table jittered alarmingly. Both agents  
reflexively looked at the ceiling. "And we're conveniently  
located underneath the major flight path of an  
international airport, not to mention near a drive-in."  
  
"Oh, goody," Solo said sourly.  
  
For the next two days, the agents were treated to continual  
noise and a parade of indifferent food. The hijackers went  
out only for meals at the next-door drive-in, apparently  
waiting for some word from their superiors.  
  
On the third day, though, they abruptly headed out again,  
eastwards this time. The agents scrambled to collect their  
scanty belongings, pay the bill, and follow. "And just when  
I was beginning to recognize each of those Northwest Orient  
jets," Solo complained. "I was making a list, like those  
English train spotters."   
  
"Don't worry--you can come back on your next vacation and  
complete your list," Illya said. "I'm sure Mrs. Johnson  
will give you this room again, if you want." He flipped a  
matchbook at his partner. "Here's a souvenir matchbook,  
just in case you didn't note down the phone number."  
  
"It wouldn't be the same without Halvorsen and company in  
the foreground," Solo said. "I guess I'll have to settle  
for Monaco again."  
  
In two more days, after driving practically nonstop, they  
were pulling into a warehouse in a rundown part of  
Brooklyn, Solo and Kuryakin in tow.  
  
"At least we can go home and change clothes," Solo sighed.  
"I dibs first shift off."  
  
***  
  
New York City  
  
"Have we got an ID yet on that Caddy?" Solo asked.  
  
"It just came through a few hours ago, while you were  
taking your beauty sleep. Section 4 reports it's  
registered to a Nicholas Forrester at a Manhattan  
address--a townhouse in the Forties, no less."  
  
"So what's it doing here?"  
  
Illya shrugged. "Maybe he works here. They don't have an  
occupation on him yet."  
  
"He keeps odd hours, then. He came in yesterday morning  
at," Solo consulted the logsheet, "four a.m. Now he's  
leaving at nine p.m. Something of a night owl, isn't he."  
  
"It's not against the law."  
  
"On the other hand," Solo mused, "maybe he's the next link  
in the chain. After all, Halvorsen drove straight to this  
address and disappeared. The truck's still at that parking  
lot down the street. This guy is the only other person  
we've seen go in or out."  
  
"Section 4 is still doing a rundown on him. So far they've  
traced him back only ten years or so. Before that, nothing.  
As far as we can tell, he appears to be independently  
wealthy and a bit of a recluse. Interestingly enough, he  
just returned from a long stay in Europe--according to his  
passport, he was in the Netherlands, France, and Belgium.  
He travels quite a lot."  
  
"Hmm." Solo flipped through the scant file, and studied the  
copy of the driver's license photo. It showed a  
studious-looking man with horn-rimmed glasses and a goatee;  
he reminded Solo of some of his old college professors.  
"Wish I could afford a Caddy like that."  
  
"Save your pennies--I don't think a salary increase is in  
the future. I heard Mr. Waverly talking about cutting back  
the clerical staff again."  
  
Solo snorted. "Don't they know how much it costs to save  
the world from tyranny and injustice on a weekly basis?" He  
threw the file onto the cot.   
  
Illya shook his head. "I don't think upper management  
considers Cadillacs an essential tool for law enforcement."  
  
Solo sighed. "Oh, well. We do it for the job satisfaction,  
anyway." He changed the subject to the business at hand.  
"You know, Illya, I don't think surveillance is going to  
get us the information we need. I think it's time for some  
direct action."  
  
"In other words, breaking and entering."  
  
"I prefer to think of it as 'strategic infiltration.'"  
  
"As I said, breaking and entering."  
  
***  
  
Thirty minutes later, the two UNCLE agents were in an alley  
outside one of the warehouse's doors. Solo kept watch while  
Illya quietly and efficiently picked the lock, then eased  
the door open and cautiously flicked on a penlight.  
  
The narrow beam of light revealed a corridor with two  
heavy steel doors and a freight elevator. One had a faded  
sign, 'Loading Dock.' "That must be where Forrester parks  
his car," Solo whispered. Illya nodded wordlessly and  
turned his attention to the next door.  
  
Several more minutes of his ministrations resulted in  
another open door, revealing a dark staircase leading  
upstairs. Illya gestured silently and they cautiously  
looked up the dusty wooden stairs.  
  
"Start at the top?" Solo whispered.   
  
Illya nodded, and the two agents mounted the four flights  
of stairs as quietly as possible. Each landing they passed  
had a another heavy steel door guarding the storage or  
office space behind it.  
  
At the top was yet another door, but this one was  
different. It was a heavy slab of polished oak with brass  
fittings--and it was unlocked. Illya pushed it open, his  
penlight flicking around the revealed room. He gave a small  
snort of surprise. "It's an apartment. A nice one."  
  
Solo looked over his shoulder. The yellow glow glanced off  
polished furniture and bookshelves. The floor was carpeted  
with a thick Persian rug, and curios were displayed on the  
antique tables. An expensive Garrard turntable,  
reel-to-reel tape recorder, and hi-fi receiver graced  
another shelf, flanked by racks of stereo LPs. A large  
console color television stood in the corner. He whistled  
under his breath. "No wonder he drives a Caddy, the guy  
must be loaded."  
  
"But why is he living here in such a rundown area? What's  
at that Manhattan address?" Illya objected.   
  
"Maybe he moved and didn't change his driver's license?"   
Solo suggested.  
  
Illya didn't grace the comment with a reply.  
  
They moved further into the apartment. There were seven  
spacious rooms in all, equally well-appointed. The few that  
had windows were heavily draped with dark red brocade,  
floor to ceiling.  
  
There was no obvious evidence of any connection to the  
smuggling operation-- *What did you expect to find? File  
drawers labeled 'Secret NATO Gizmos?'* Solo thought to  
himself--although the mere fact that a luxury apartment was  
located in such an odd place, and the suspicious  
coincidence that Halvorsen had been traced to this address,  
and that Forrester himself had just been in Belgium, the  
site of NATO Headquarters, made it suspect.  
  
Illya was busy installing a bug in the telephone and Solo  
was running his penlight over the spines of the books  
lining the wall--"Jeez, this guy has books in at least  
seven languages," he commented. Illya just grunted and  
continued with his work--when a quiet voice asked, "Can I  
help you find something?" and a light snapped on.  
  
The UNCLE agents started and faced the direction of the  
voice. Solo thought his heart would jump right out of his  
mouth. *Where the hell did he come from?!*  
  
A tall blond man lounged casually in the doorway, his hand  
on the light switch, icy blue eyes fixed on the two men. He  
was well-dressed in a dark navy suit, an obviously  
hand-tailored white shirt and a conservatively striped tie.  
Solo recognized him from the driver's license photo in the  
file Section 4 had put together, although the goatee and  
horn-rimmed glasses were absent. "Nicholas Forrester," he  
said.  
  
The blond man raised an eyebrow. "You had better have a  
good explanation for being here," he said, his voice  
deceptively mild. "I don't take invasions of my privacy  
lightly." There was something under the quiet tones that  
sent chills down Solo's spine. Although Forrester didn't  
look that muscular, somehow Solo knew he could hurt both of  
them, and badly, without breaking a sweat.   
  
There was a blur of motion, and before the agents could  
react, Forrester was next to Illya, his hand on the  
Russian's wrist. Without effort he removed the tiny  
electronic bug from Illya's suddenly nerveless hand and  
examined it briefly. He smiled sardonically at Illya, said,  
"Really, now," and crushed it between his fingers. Illya  
stared dumbly at the rain of tiny components that pattered  
onto the hardwood floor.   
  
"Napoleon," he said conversationally, "I don't think the  
story about being the telephone repair man will work with  
Mr. Forrester." He rubbed his wrist, his eyes on Forrester,  
then unobtrusively started moving his hand towards his  
jacket pocket and the UNCLE Special nestled there.   
  
Solo noted his partner's surreptitious movement and began  
edging sideways to get more distance between them. The  
further apart they were, the less control Forrester would  
have over them...  
  
"No, it won't." Forrester looked directly into Illya's  
eyes, and the blond agent felt the world slow and contract  
to encompass only the sound of his own beating heart.  
Forrester's voice echoed in his ears. "Do not lie to me."  
  
Illya swayed slightly. "Don't lie..." he found himself  
murmuring, and it seemed the most reasonable thing in the  
world to say. Why would he lie? His hand dropped limply to  
his side.  
  
Forrester swung around and caught Solo in his stare before  
Solo could do anything but gape at his suddenly passive  
partner. "Do not lie to me," he repeated, and Solo, like  
his partner, felt the force of Forrester's will wash over  
him like a warm tide, his heart loud in his ears.   
  
"I won't lie..." he said, as if in a dream.  
  
"Sit down," Forrester ordered, and the two agents moved  
slowly to the leather sofa and sat side by side, their eyes  
vacantly staring ahead. "Now tell me why you are here..."  
  
***  
  
Nick paced restlessly back and forth, wondering what to do.  
The two men he had caught breaking into his home--his  
home!--sat quietly on the sofa, just as he had told them.  
Of course, it wasn't like they had any choice; neither was  
a resister. The 'whammy,' as some of the younger ones in  
the Community liked to call it, had been absurdly easy.  
  
He grimaced in annoyance. In a moment of misbegotten  
generosity, he had agreed to let Lacroix use the two  
unoccupied floors of his warehouse while he was away in  
Europe for the last three months, and this is what he got--  
international smugglers, spies, intrigue, and mysterious  
supra-national organizations with stupid names battling  
each other in secret--all going on under his unsuspecting  
nose. He sighed. He could see the latest period of uneasy  
but mostly peaceful coexistence with his ancient master  
dissolving yet again.  
  
He was also uneasy about the mysterious Rollo Halvorsen. He  
hadn't detected any signs of life elsewhere in his  
building except the expected rats and mice, and his  
visitors had said Halvorsen had gone in but not out.  
Perhaps, he thought humorlessly, Lacroix had felt the need  
for a little snack.  
  
He wondered what scheme, what intrigue Lacroix was playing  
at. He wouldn't put it beyond him to stir up a war, just  
for the entertainment value.   
  
In the old days, that didn't usually result in a major  
conflict--two duchies battling it out, with maybe twenty  
casualties total--but nowadays the scope for mischief had  
grown so much larger. Just look what had happened the last  
time Lacroix had meddled in politics, back in 1917. *Poor  
Nicky,* he thought, thinking briefly about the sad and  
not-too-bright czar and his family.  
  
He shook himself away from that unproductive line of  
thought. He would have to put a stop to whatever was going  
on, that was clear, starting with these two. They and their  
organization seemed bent on investigating him, and while  
the identify Aristotle had created for him ten years ago  
would stand up to ordinary scrutiny, the UNCLE agents  
seemed to have more resources than most available to them.  
They just might find the inevitable unforeseen  
inconsistencies, and start digging into the dark world of  
the Community. And if they started poking around Lacroix's  
life, well, there would be curiously drained corpses  
springing up all over New York City.   
  
No, he would have to get involved again with the mortal  
world. He sighed. After HUAC and Senator McCarthy had  
forced him out of his quiet and fulfilling life as Nicholas  
Girard, assistant curator and associate professor of  
archaeology, he had retreated into a self-imposed  
isolation, refusing to become involved with mortal lives  
and concerns. It had been over ten years, but he didn't  
feel ready to try again--not yet. It seemed that Chance,  
however, in the form of his ever-scheming master, had  
intervened and forced the issue. Damn.  
  
Nick turned to his uninvited guests and focused his will on  
both of them. The regular thudding of their hearts,  
slightly out of sync, was thunderous in his ears. He pushed  
away the ever-present temptation to simply drain them and  
be done with it. Instead, he said, "Listen to me. You no  
longer think I am a suspect. Instead, you have asked me to  
assist you in catching your smugglers. You believe I am  
just a wealthy, eccentric man with too much time on his  
hands, who just happened to rent his warehouse to the wrong  
person." He paused. That should do it. He sat down in the  
chair opposite the two men and assumed a casual air. "You  
may wake up now."  
  
He watched the awareness grow in the agents' eyes, and  
said, as if continuing a conversation, "You want me to do  
*what*?"  
  
Solo said, "Huh?" then seemed to regain his train of  
thought. He glanced at his partner uncertainly, and said,  
"Well, it would be helpful if you could, ah, assist us in  
our investigation. It's your warehouse, after all, and no  
one could question your concern about your own tenant.  
Right, Illya?"  
  
The Russian seemed dazed but he said, "Yes, of course. You  
would be doing a great service if you cooperated."   
  
Nick pretended to hesitate. "Well..."  
  
Solo continued persuasively, "It won't be dangerous. We'll  
be here to protect you, and with any luck, we should be  
able to wrap this up in no time at all."  
  
Nick smiled inwardly at the absurdity of these two mortals  
protecting him. Who would protect *them* if Lacroix was  
involved? He relented. "Oh, all right. What do you want me  
to do?"   
  
That stopped them. Nick hadn't 'suggested' any course of  
action. Solo hesitated. "Well..."  
  
Nick suggested smoothly, "How about I meet with  
my...tenant? I'll see what I can find out in casual  
conversation. There are some matters of the lease that need  
discussion, anyway." He smiled deprecatingly. "I think I  
could draw him out a bit. We're old acquaintances."  
  
"I don't know." Solo looked at Illya. "If he's involved  
with the smuggling ring, it could be dangerous. He might  
get suspicious. We should check him out first, find out  
what his connection is with Halvorsen."  
  
Nick tensed. Of course they would try to check Lacroix out,  
no matter what he said, but Lacroix's identity was, as they  
said, bullet-proof. Nick was sure that no one could connect  
him with anything in the least bit illegal--odd, perhaps,  
but not illegal. Still... This wasn't going the way he  
wanted.   
  
He said hurriedly, "No, let me speak with him first. I'm  
sure he thought he was involved with a legal export  
arrangement, or something like that."  
  
Illya said, "Then you must wear a transmitter, so we can  
listen in and act if it becomes necessary."   
  
Damn! This wasn't going well at all. He frowned and  
exerted his will again over the two agents. "No. I will  
talk to my tenant, and you will *not* investigate him or  
insist I carry a transmitter with me. You will wait until I  
contact you again."   
  
Still affected by his original whammy, the agents' eyes  
were instantly vacant again, and they were nodding in  
agreement. "No transmitter--wait until you contact us--"   
  
Nick stood up and gestured to them. "Get up, now, and  
leave. Oh, and before you go, tell me how I can contact  
you"  
  
Solo was rubbing his hand across his eyes. "Boy, this has  
been a long day--I feel like I could sleep for the next  
week," he muttered. He straightened up and took a small  
notebook out of his pocket. "Call this number after you  
meet with your tenant," he instructed, ripping off the  
sheet of paper and handing it to Nick. "Someone is there  
twenty-four hours a day. They'll pass the message along.  
We'll expect to hear from you within the next day or so,  
right?"  
  
Nick nodded solemnly. "Yes, I'll meet with him tonight, and  
call you tomorrow." This was more like it, he thought with  
satisfaction. He ushered the two men towards the door, and  
said, "Good-night, gentlemen. I'll be in touch," and shut  
the door firmly behind them.  
  
The agents trudged down the dark stairs, and let themselves  
out the door Illya had picked open earlier. Standing in the  
dank alley, he said, "Well, we wait, then. But you know,  
Napoleon, there's something that just feels--wrong--about  
this. I don't know what, but it just feels wrong." He shook  
his head dubiously. "And we never found out the name of his  
tenant."  
  
Solo slapped him on the back. "That's your Slavic, Gypsy  
blood talking. It's just because he caught us in flagrante,  
and we didn't even have to fight to get out. *That's*  
what's different about this. The people we burgle are  
hardly ever as cooperative as Forrester is." He yawned  
hugely and stretched. "Time to report in and then hit the  
sack."  
  
"Very well, but you get to explain this to Mr. Waverly. I'm  
still trying to figure it out, myself."  
  
"Oh, no, I wrote the last report. It's your turn..."  
  
They continued arguing amiably and disappeared into the  
night.  
  
***  
  
Nick watched them go from the roof of the warehouse and  
considered what approach to take with Lacroix. He had no  
illusions about his ability to keep his feelings and  
thoughts from his master. In fact, he thought sourly, he  
was probably anticipating his visit right now and relishing  
yet another opportunity to taunt him about the stupidity of  
trying to maintain a human sense of morality.   
  
Nonetheless, he had to try to talk him out of this latest  
escapade, whatever it was. Nick looked again into the  
alley, and into the dark windows of the building across the  
street. Even with his enhanced night vision, he couldn't  
see any watchers, but just to be sure, he decided he  
shouldn't take the Caddy out again. Accordingly, he took to  
the sky.  
  
Five minutes later he touched down softly in an alley  
behind a Chinese restaurant in Greenwich Village, scaring a  
scrawny alley cat away from his dinner, and hurried out to  
the street.  
  
The sidewalk was crowded with late-night revelers, the  
bright young things who frequented the hip nightclubs in  
dimly-lit basements, listening to atonal jazz  
improvisations and discussing the latest art exhibit at the  
Guggenheim. Black clothing, Gauloise cigarettes, and bored  
attitudes were the favored mode, and Nick was conspicuous  
in his conservative navy suit and rep tie.   
  
He made his way to the club where he knew Lacroix spent  
most of his evenings, as did many of the vampire residents  
of New York. A meaningful glare at the vampire bouncer at  
the door gained him admittance, much to the noisy protests  
of the semi-drunken crowd gathered around the door of the  
popular night spot.  
  
He could feel Lacroix's presence strongly now--the ancient  
had let down the mental barriers he habitually kept in  
place except when he wished Nick to know his mind. Right  
now he was amused. Wonderful.  
  
"Hello, Nicholas," he said with a wintry smile, when Nick  
appeared at his side. He motioned for his son to have a  
seat at the small table he occupied at the back of the dark  
room. "Do sit down." He sipped at his glass of bloodwine.  
"To what do I owe the honor of this visit? Oh--I should  
welcome you home, I suppose. I trust Paris is still  
standing."  
  
Nick sat down, and said wearily, "Yes, Paris is fine.  
Although I understand you've taken some steps that might  
change that."  
  
"Me? Whatever do you mean?" Lacroix raised an eyebrow and  
continued watching the heroin-thin saxophonist on stage.   
  
"You know what I mean. The little smuggling operation  
you're running out of *my* warehouse." Although he was  
trying, it was rapidly becoming hard to contain his  
annoyance.   
  
"Oh, that. A mere divertissement." He gestured as if  
chasing away an annoying insect, then feigned astonishment.  
"Do you wish, as they say, 'a piece of the action?' Your  
cut for providing storage space?" He frowned and shook his  
head. "I don't think I'd be willing to lessen my share of  
the transaction--I've gone to quite a lot of effort to set  
this up. I apologize for my lack of candor, but I didn't  
think you'd mind letting a few boxes sit in that big, empty  
space for a week or so. They would all have been long gone  
if there hadn't been some unforeseen delays." He shook his  
head in mock sorrow.  
  
"Lacroix, this must stop. Do you know what you are meddling  
with?"   
  
"Of course I know, Nicholas. But when you think about it, I  
am merely disseminating information--ensuring that the  
whole world knows of important new technological  
breakthroughs. Don't you think it rather selfish, unfair  
even, that the Western alliance would keep this to itself?  
Any profit I gain is a mere afterthought in light of that."  
He seemed pleased with his reasoning.  
  
"Did it ever occur to you that you could be endangering the  
balance of power by 'disseminating information?'" Nick  
gritted through clenched teeth.   
  
Lacroix was amused at his intensity. "Yes, of course it  
occurred to me. Why do you think I agreed to arrange this  
little transaction for the Hierarchy? It might prove to be  
very--entertaining." He absently traced little patterns on  
the tablecloth.  
  
"'The Hierarchy?' That wouldn't be by any chance an  
organization also known as THRUSH, would it?"   
  
"Why yes. One of their people approached me last year. It  
seems I came to their attention quite by accident while I  
was seeing to some of my affairs in the Belgian Congo." He  
laughed quietly. "Do you know, they actually offered me a  
satrapy--that's what they call the local cells of their  
little group. They wanted to make me a satrap."   
  
He shrugged. "I refused, of course. Far too much paperwork  
for my tastes, and a rather tedious chain of command. They  
actually take orders from something they refer to as 'the  
Ultimate Computer.' I did, however, agree to arrange this  
for them, in return for an obscene amount of money. And the  
amusement of it, of course."   
  
He reflected. "They're actually quite advanced, in that  
they seem to value power over mere money. They were rather  
disappointed I insisted on Swiss francs instead of taking  
control of a large portion of West Germany." Letting his  
eyes rove over the dim room he added, "I've never cared for  
that part of the world. Barbarians to the core."  
  
"Well, it appears that you weren't careful enough with your  
little escapade. Some agents of THRUSH's adversary, UNCLE,  
were busy bugging my apartment this evening. They are  
probably busy investigating me, you, the warehouse, and  
anyone else you come into contact with, including a Rollo  
Halvorsen, if he's still alive--" a twitch of Lacroix's  
lips told NIck that Halvorsen was no longer among the  
living. "--if I wasn't successful in 'persuading' them to  
stop, that is."   
  
He drew a deep breath. "This whole thing has gotten out of  
hand, and I want it stopped, now. I want those things  
returned, I want *you* out of my warehouse, and I want to  
be *left alone*!" By the end Nick was fairly shouting his  
demands. He realized people were looking at him, and  
managed to quell his anger. "Do you hear me?" he hissed in  
a quieter voice.  
  
"Yes, and I imagine everyone else here does, too." Lacroix  
watched the untalented musician onstage and toyed with his  
wine glass. Finally, he said, "And in answer to your  
demand--no."  
  
"What do you mean, 'no!?'"  
  
"Just that. No. I gave my word, and regardless of what you  
think of me, that means something. I will see this affair  
through. I am noting your objections, of course, but--no."  
  
Nick scowled. "Then I will have to stop you." He started to  
get up.  
  
Lacroix's arm shot out, and Nick found his wrist held in an  
iron grip. The fingers tightened painfully in warning. "Do  
not defy me, Nicholas. Perhaps you should go back to  
Europe, or see Aristotle about another identity, if you are  
worried about these UNCLE men. Or better still, kill them  
and be done with it. I warn you, though--do not interfere."  
He released Nick's hand.  
  
Nick glared at him, turned on his heel, and left.   
  
Lacroix smiled gently to himself, and turned his attention  
again to the musician on stage. "Oh, but you *will* try,  
won't you? *Bon chance, Nicolas, bon chance*," he  
whispered.  
  
***  
  
The first thing Nick did when he got home was pay a visit  
to the space he had allowed Lacroix to use. Nick's  
apartment was on the top floor; the floor below that was  
his storage space for the eclectic collection of  
possessions he had accumulated over the years and couldn't  
bring himself to abandon. The bottom two floors had been  
vacant--until recently, that is. Presumably that was where  
the stolen electronics were.  
  
He went downstairs and opened the door to the first floor  
with his master key. The heavy steel door opened with a  
loud creak, letting a sliver of light from the stairwell  
fall on the dusty wooden floor beyond.   
  
He flicked on the overhead lights and scanned the large  
room. Nothing. There was nowhere to hide anything, no  
evidence that anyone had been there recently. He locked up  
and went to look at the second floor.  
  
He couldn't fit the key in the lock. Frowning, he checked  
to make sure he had the correct one. It was, and it still  
didn't slide into the lock. He smiled grimly--this was it.  
Someone had changed the locks. It wouldn't have been  
Lacroix, who was well aware that a lock couldn't keep him  
out if he wanted access. It had to be one of the smugglers.  
  
He grasped the doorknob firmly and twisted, and the lock  
groaned and sheared off in a small shriek of overstressed  
steel. The door opened with a gentle push. He listened  
carefully for signs of life. Again, nothing.  
  
This time when he turned on the lights five wooden packing  
crates stacked in the center of the room were revealed, the  
dusty floor marked with wheel tracks and footprints. The  
stolen electronics had obviously been brought in on a dolly  
by way of the freight elevator in the far wall.   
  
Nick examined the crates closely. Each was about three feet  
on a side, and was marked only with a serial number and the  
international symbols for "This Side Up" and "Fragile." He  
grasped the nearest one in an awkward grip and hefted it  
experimentally; it weighed about eighty pounds, no great  
burden for him, although the size of the box made it  
unwieldy to handle.  
  
He couldn't leave them here where they might be picked up  
by others in the smuggling operation. From what the UNCLE  
agents had told him, THRUSH was large and well-organized.  
It seemed unlikely they'd let these crates stay unattended  
for long. And surely, Lacroix was expecting him to  
investigate his warehouse for the contraband.  
  
Nick started to take the crates up to his apartment, then  
reconsidered. That would be the first place Lacroix would  
look.   
  
He did, however, have a few more properties in New York of  
which his master was unaware. He thought for a moment and  
then decided on another warehouse, this one located in  
Manhattan. It was occupied by a distributor of Persian  
carpets, but he thought he could stash the crates on the  
roof for a day or two without his tenant noticing them.   
  
Accordingly, he flew the crates one at a time three miles  
through the waning night to the Manhattan rooftop, where he  
arranged them neatly in a corner between the roof door and  
a large heating and cooling unit.  
  
When at last all five crates had been moved, Nick snugged a  
tarpaulin around them and looked at his work with  
satisfaction. They were safe--for the moment.  
  
***  
  
The next evening, as dusk was falling, Nick called the  
number on the scrap of paper Solo had given him. It rang  
eight times, then a female voice answered.  
  
"Yeah?" said the voice, in a bored tone.  
  
"I was given this number to call. Can you pass a message on  
to Mr. Solo?" Nick asked.  
  
"Whaddaya wanna say?" The accent was pure Flatbush. Nick  
could imagine her snapping gum and filing her nails while  
she sat, the phone propped between her shoulder and ear.  
  
He replied, "This is Nick Forrester. Please tell Mr. Solo I  
talked with my tenant, and I have good news about the, uh,  
merchandise."   
  
"'Kay. That it?"   
  
"Uh, yes."  
  
The line went dead.  
  
Nick sat back and sighed. He supposed now all he could do  
was wait for a call from the UNCLE agents. He hoped they  
would get back to him before Lacroix decided to check up on  
the status of his little 'divertissement.'   
  
For a seemingly endless hour, Nick paced, picked out  
meaningless tunes on the piano, and fidgeted. When the  
phone finally rang, he pounced on it and said, "Forrester  
here."  
  
Solo's voice said, "Mr. Forrester? I hear you have good  
news?"  
  
"Yes," he answered, relieved that the ball was finally  
rolling. "I spoke with my tenant last night, and he assured  
me he thought he was dealing with a legitimate export  
operation. He's horrified that he got involved with  
smugglers, and he turned the shipment over to me." The lies  
came with practiced ease. "I have the crates in a safe  
place, where the smugglers can't find them."  
  
"Uh, that's not what we wanted." Solo sounded less than  
pleased. "We *want* them to have the shipment, so we can  
track where they're sending it."  
  
"Oh," Nick said. God, why couldn't they just *take* the  
damned things and go away? Now what?  
  
Solo sighed. "Well, I guess we can't do anything about that  
now. Where are they?"  
  
"In Manhattan, at another one of my properties." He rattled  
off the address. "I'll meet you there in an hour."  
  
"We can take care of it..." Solo began.  
  
"No, I don't want you breaking into *another* one of my  
buildings. I'll meet you there with the keys."   
  
Solo sighed again. "All right. One hour."  
  
"I'll see you there." Nick hung up the phone. One hour and  
the crates would be out of his hands and into those of  
their rightful owners, and he could fade back into the  
obscurity he preferred at the moment. Maybe. He suddenly  
remembered the agents had told him there had been two other  
stolen shipments. Where were they? Lacroix could still  
cause trouble.  
  
Damn.  
  
***  
  
An hour later Nick was standing in the shadows of the  
Manhattan warehouse. He had flown again, not wishing to be  
followed by anyone still on observation duty in the  
warehouse across the street from his.   
  
There were few people around the deserted back street, save  
two derelicts sleeping in the alley next to the building.  
Nick heard the quiet tread of the two men before they  
rounded the corner. They were dressed casually in dark  
clothes, as was he, and they were moving alertly.   
  
Nick stepped silently out of the shadows when they came  
abreast of him and said, "Good evening."  
  
They both jumped. "Damn!" Solo exclaimed. "How do you do  
that?" then collected himself. "Good evening, Mr.  
Forrester."  
  
Nick gestured. "Shall we?"  
  
The agents both nodded, and the trio moved to the front  
door of the warehouse. Nick produced his key and let them  
into the dark front office. "The crates are on the roof,"  
he explained as he led them to the freight elevator.  
  
They rode silently to the roof. Once there, Nick showed  
them the pile of boxes in the corner.  
  
Illya asked curiously, "How did you get them here  
yourself?" He removed the tarpaulin and hefted one of the  
boxes, grunting as he picked it up awkwardly. "They're  
pretty heavy," he commented, and put the box down as gently  
as he could.  
  
Nick shrugged. "It wasn't that difficult. I took two at a  
time in the trunk of the Caddy, and brought them up on a  
dolly." He put as much sincerity as he could into his  
voice, but he could tell by the way that the two agents  
looked at him they didn't quite believe him.   
  
"Well, now that we've got them, let's get them out of  
here," Solo said brightly. "There's a panel truck around  
the corner that'll take them." He fished his communicator  
out of his breast pocket and extended the aerial. "Open  
Channel L, please," he said into it.  
  
"You're so polite, Napoleon," came a voice through the tiny  
speaker. "Your mother would be proud. Time for the  
pick-up?"  
  
"Yeah, Bob, bring your boys up to the roof. We've got five  
crates here," he answered with a grin.   
  
Shortly, three men in coveralls arrived on the roof, and  
proceeded to take the crates away. Five minutes later they  
were gone.  
  
"Well, that's that," Nick said. "I'll be going now. Let's  
lock up and go home." He moved towards the elevator.  
  
"Uh, Mr. Forrester," Solo began. Nick turned to look at him  
inquiringly. "We'd like to have a little chat with you down  
at headquarters."  
  
"'A little chat'--that sounds suspiciously like an order,  
not a request."  
  
"Well, you're not a suspect in this affair, but we still  
have some questions about your tenant. You never told us  
his name, incidentally. And our superior would like to  
thank you personally for your cooperation."   
  
The two agents now flanked Nick, one on either side. He  
looked at their faces; they didn't appear quite so friendly  
now. He thought briefly of whammying them again and flying  
away, but now there were others that knew about him--this  
superior, for one--and they would just come after him  
again. He would have to 'disappear' again to avoid them. He  
had been wearing this identity only ten years--it was too  
soon. He was just getting comfortable.   
  
He decided to play the situation out. Perhaps it would turn  
out to be nothing more than questions he could easily  
avoid. He *had* survived the Spanish Inquisition, after  
all--what could these men do to top that? "All right," he  
said. The agents visibly relaxed, but they remained on  
either side of him.  
  
"Where's your car?" Illya asked. "We could take it with us.  
It might be stolen here."  
  
Nick shook his head. "I, uh, took a cab most of the way,  
then walked."  
  
"That's all right, then. Let's go--it isn't far."  
  
The agents' car was parked two blocks away. They rode  
silently through the late night streets towards the East  
River, pulling into an underground garage ten minutes  
later.   
  
In a small reception area, an attractive young woman pinned  
a numbered triangular badge on Nick's lapel. She smiled at  
him and said, "This badge allows you only on the third  
floor. Don't try to go anywhere else, or alarms will  
sound."   
  
Her smile warmed considerably as she pinned a badge bearing  
the number '11' on Illya, and she fluttered her eyelashes  
at the blond agent. "Keeping late hours tonight, Mr.  
Kuryakin," she murmured, taking longer than absolutely  
necessary to make sure the badge was straight.   
  
The Russian merely smiled slightly and nodded. Solo rolled  
his eyes as he received his badge, this one with a '2' on  
it. As the trio walked towards the elevator in the hallway,  
he said, "Illya, will you put that poor woman out of her  
misery and take her out? It's driving me crazy watching her  
go to all that trouble flirting, and you not doing a thing  
about it."  
  
Illya smiled enigmatically. "How do you know I haven't  
already?" He got into the elevator.  
  
Solo stared at him, then ushered Nick into the car after  
Illya. "I would have heard..." he said, but the Russian  
just raised an eyebrow.   
  
Nick was amused at the interchange, but turned his thoughts  
to the story he was going to have to tell. It would have to  
be close to the truth, given the investigational tenacity  
of the UNCLE agents, but he would also have to leave out  
some crucial details--such as Lacroix's 'arrangement' with  
THRUSH.   
  
He was shown into a comfortable conference room,  
furnished with a large table and eight armchairs. His  
sensitive ears picked up a muted whirring noise, and  
looking casually around, he noticed a tiny lens in the  
corner of the ceiling. A camera. At least it was more  
subtle than the traditional one-way mirror.   
  
"Please stay here," Solo said. "We'll be back in a few  
minutes with our superior." With that they left him alone.  
The door made a decisive 'snick' as it locked behind them.  
  
***  
  
Fifteen minutes later, Solo asked the agent watching the  
camera monitor, "What's Forrester been doing?"  
  
Agent Graham shook his head. "Nothing, and I mean that  
literally. He sat down, crossed his legs, and hasn't moved  
a muscle since." Graham sat back and pointed at the  
monitor. "See? It's creepy. Are you sure he's alive?" He  
sounded like he was only half joking.  
  
Solo peered at the monitor. Forrester sat composedly, his  
hands folded in his lap, his legs crossed, no expression on  
his face. Solo watched for a minute, and sure enough, he  
detected no movement. Forrester didn't fidget, didn't blink  
as far as he could see--Graham was right, it was creepy.   
  
Just then Illya came down the hallway, accompanied by Mr.  
Waverly. Solo was amazed Waverly was still in the  
building--didn't the old man ever sleep?--he seemed to be  
there constantly.   
  
Waverly peered into the monitoring room. "Well, Mr. Solo?  
Shall we have our chat with your helpful Mr. Forrester?"  
  
"Yes, sir." The three went to the conference room, where  
Illya unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped aside to  
allow Mr. Waverly to enter.  
  
***  
  
Nick heard the 'snick' of the lock and snapped out of his  
reverie and back into the present. He turned his gaze on  
the door and the elderly man entering the room.  
  
Alexander Waverly was a man of about seventy years, with  
iron gray hair and a deeply-lined face, wearing a baggy  
tweed suit. His eyes, however, were bright and  
discerning--and at the moment, staring at him. His features  
seemed familiar to Nick, as apparently Nick's were to him.   
  
"Nicholas Chevalier!" Waverly exclaimed, then shook his  
head in disbelief. "But it couldn't be, of course. My  
mistake--but you look amazingly like someone I knew long  
ago, in the war." He sat down at the table, as did Solo and  
Kuryakin. "Are you in any way related to a French gentleman  
named Chevalier?"  
  
As Nick tried to collect his thoughts, Solo said smoothly,  
"Nicholas Forrester, allow me to introduce the head of  
UNCLE's North American Operations, and our boss, Alexander  
Waverly."   
  
Once again the reality of mortal existence hit Nick  
squarely between the eyes. Alexander Waverly! This elderly  
man must be the same Alexander Waverly who in 1941 had been  
the British liaison between the Parisian cells of the  
French Resistance and the Allies--and Nick had been his  
contact.   
  
Then, Waverly had been an energetic and resourceful  
forty-five year old intelligence officer. And now...Nick  
was willing to bet the keen intelligence was in no way  
diminished. He would have to watch himself. In the  
meantime, he trotted out his standard explanation of why he  
resembled someone who should be much older, or dead.  
  
He stood up and shook Waverly's hand. "A pleasure, Mr.  
Waverly," he said. "Nicholas Chevalier was my father. I'm  
named for him, as a matter of fact."   
  
"But your last name is different...?" Waverly raised an  
eyebrow in polite inquiry.  
  
Nick attempted to look embarrassed. "My father, uh, died in  
the war, and never actually married my mother. She was an  
American studying in England when she met him as a student.  
He went back to France in 1932 and was never able to return  
for her." He made a show of regret. "Thomas Forrester was  
my stepfather, and the only father I ever knew." Nick  
silently thanked Aristotle for contriving a relatively  
flexible past for him--his fictional father could very  
easily have been his stepfather. He made a mental note to  
ask the vampire forgery expert to produce an adoption  
certificate for him sometime in the next few weeks, just in  
case.  
  
Waverly harrumphed, his face creasing in a reminiscent  
smile. "Chevalier was always pursued by the ladies, that is  
true enough. So the Germans finally caught up with him, eh?  
I lost track of him in '43." He examined Nick again. "The  
resemblance is quite remarkable. You even sound like him."  
  
"That's what my mother always said," Nick said. Trying to  
change the conversation away from his supposed past, he  
asked, "I understand you have some questions?"  
  
Waverly waved a hand. "Mr. Solo? Carry on."  
  
Solo shuffled through the folder he had before him on the  
table. "Now, Mr. Forrester--what is your tenant's name?"  
  
Nick settled himself deeper in the chair and looked blandly  
at the agent. He had anticipated this line of questioning  
and had decided to tell as much of the truth as possible.  
Lacroix's history was impeccable, anyway; he was sure they  
wouldn't be able to find anything odd in *his* paperwork.  
  
Aristotle wouldn't dare leave any holes, not if he valued  
his unlife.   
  
"My tenant's name is Lucien Lacroix," he began. "He is an  
entrepreneur with far-ranging interests, and has business  
interests internationally. In fact, that's how we met--he  
bought a property of mine in Belgium."  
  
"What nationality is he?" asked Illya.  
  
Nick had to think about that. What was he claiming now? Oh,  
yes... "He's Canadian."   
  
Solo was taking notes. "Now about your relationship with  
Mr. Lacroix..."   
  
The gentle but insistent interrogation continued. Nick  
carefully painted a picture of a busy international  
businessman, with a finger in so many ventures the details  
sometimes escaped his notice. Someone who traveled in  
exclusive circles, who had expensive tastes; someone who,  
while occasionally dealing with less-than-sterling  
characters, would not knowingly do anything illegal.  
  
Someone like himself.   
  
When he realized what he was doing was giving Lacroix the  
qualities he hoped he himself possessed, he cringed  
mentally. Were there that many similarities between them,  
was he that much a reflection of his sire? Or was it just  
the realities of the shadow life a vampire was forced to  
live that made them so similar?   
  
All through the questions and answers Waverly sat in the  
background, his sharp mind taking in every nuance of every  
answer. Nick was constantly aware of Waverly's intent gaze  
as he sat quietly drawing on his pipe.  
  
The night wore on. The questions ranged from where Lacroix  
did business to his own recent travels in Europe. Nick was  
pleased with his performance. Even Lacroix would not be  
able to find fault with him--or so he hoped. He had felt  
the insidious touch of his master's mind several times  
throughout the night, just enough to let him know he was  
being monitored. The feather-light connection held no anger  
in it--perhaps his interfering in Lacroix's game wasn't  
going to be punished, after all.   
  
Now, though, another invisible touch insinuated itself into  
his consciousness. Nick was acutely aware of the  
approaching dawn. This cat-and-mouse game was going to have  
to end, or he would be faced with trying to explain why he  
wanted to stay the day in the safe, windowless confines of  
UNCLE Headquarters.   
  
In the end he yawned conspicuously and stretched. "Are you  
quite satisfied?" he asked. "I really need to go home and  
get some sleep." He glanced at his watch--four-thirty in  
the morning. The sun would make its appearance in less than  
an hour.   
  
Solo looked down at the copious notes he had taken. "I  
guess we're done--for now," he answered. He downed the  
dregs of his now-cold coffee and made a face. "Blecchhh."  
He shuffled the papers into a semblance of order and added  
casually, as if an afterthought, "We still want to take the  
crates back to your place."  
  
Nick could only stare at the agent. After all this --  
answering all these questions -- to go back to ground zero!  
"What?!" Nick exploded. "No! I did my part--you do yours! I  
gave the damned things back to you, and what do you do?"  
His temper finally snapped. "You drag me in here for the  
third degree, you imply that my business associates are  
crooks, and now you want me to take those things back?  
Absolutely not!"   
  
"You really don't have much of a choice," said Illya from  
where he had been observing the interrogation all evening.  
"You've broken any number of laws just by having the crates  
in your warehouse."  
  
"But I didn't put them there..." Nick protested.  
  
"We know that, and you know that, but that doesn't make  
much of a difference to the police. It's still against the  
law to receive stolen goods, and it's your property. We can  
cause you some inconvenience, if nothing else, while you  
argue your case from Ryker's Island. So you really have no  
choice but to cooperate with us this one last time."  
  
Nick muttered a curse under his breath in a language not  
commonly spoken in the last four hundred years. He was  
acutely aware of the approaching dawn and the tenuousness  
of his position. "Oh, all right. But it's under  
protest--I'm done helping you out with your little  
intrigues." Unbelievable, that he had thought he could  
control this situation with a few well-placed whammies and  
a fanciful story. He stood up. "Now, can I, or rather we,  
be going? I'll show you where to put the damned things, and  
then I'm done."  
  
Solo stood up. "By all means, let's go." He gestured  
courteously at the door. "After you."  
  
Mr. Waverly, who had remained silent throughout the long  
night, said, "Thank you, Mr. Forrester. We really do  
appreciate your efforts." He puffed on his pipe, then  
seemed surprised to discover it had gone out. "Perhaps we  
may speak again--I have many fond memories of your father.  
Perhaps you would like to hear some of an old man's war  
stories."  
  
Nick reined in his temper and regarded the elderly man for  
a moment, seeing within him the reflection of the young  
intelligence officer. "Perhaps," he replied neutrally, then  
relented. "I would be most interested to hear  
your...stories." He had almost said, 'your side of the  
stories.' It would be interesting, he admitted mentally, to  
hear someone else's perceptions of himself.  
  
He shot his gaze at Solo. "Let's go," he said curtly.  
  
The trio went back down to the subterranean reception area.  
A different young woman was on duty at the desk. She  
accepted the triangular security badges without a word and  
went back to watching her security monitors. "Finally,"  
Solo muttered to himself. "A receptionist who doesn't throw  
herself at him..."   
  
They drove at a sedate pace back to Brooklyn, followed by  
the panel truck bearing the five crates. The trip took long  
enough to make Nick edgy. After all, It wouldn't do to  
spontaneously combust in front of the UNCLE agents.   
  
Nick shook his head to erase the image of himself bursting  
into flames and the agents trying to put him out. It didn't  
bear thinking about. He just wished the blond Russian would  
drive a little faster.  
  
When they finally arrived, Nick could barely refrain from  
using inhuman speed in unlocking the door and entering the  
safety of the entrance area. "It's on the second floor," he  
said gruffly, and unlocked the door to the stairwell, then  
remembered they probably wouldn't want to carry the crates  
up the stairs. And there was the matter of the broken lock  
on the door, too. He pointed to the freight elevator.  
"We'll take the elevator up."   
  
Solo stuck his head out the door and gestured to the move  
crew to start bringing the crates inside. In a scant ten  
minutes, the crates were back where they had been only  
twelve hours before--as was Nick, to his disgust, once  
again saddled with his unwanted burden and faced with  
persuading Lacroix to cease and desist.   
  
*Why me?* he asked himself plaintively while he watched the  
UNCLE agents arrange the crates in their original position.  
*Isn't it enough to be eternally damned?* He felt very  
sorry for himself and the internal monologue continued. No,  
not only did he have to bear the guilt of thousands of  
murders and other heinous crimes against humanity, he had  
to somehow prevent global warfare as well. *It just isn't  
fair.*   
  
He saw that Illya was fussing over some kind of detector.  
There was a quiet 'ping,' and the Russian smiled in  
satisfaction. "The tracers are still working perfectly.  
We'll know the minute the XCS-112s are moved," he  
announced.  
  
"Will you be going now?" Nick hated the plaintive note that  
had crept into his voice. "It's been more than a long  
night." *And I want to dive into a bottle of swill and  
wallow a bit*, he added to himself.  
  
"Yes, we'll leave you now." Solo yawned. "It's been a long  
night for us, too, remember." He looked pointedly at Nick.  
"Leave these things alone, now. We'll have agents watching  
from across the street for any sign of THRUSH. We'll take  
care of it from here."  
  
The agents departed with a final admonition to 'take care,'  
and left Nick standing in the entrance vestibule. He  
remembered again that he had broken the lock to the second  
floor door. More complications to worry about... no, he  
wasn't going to do a thing about it. Let the smugglers  
worry a bit, at least they'd find their goods sitting there  
waiting for them.   
  
He trudged up the stairs and headed for what he figured  
might be his last day of peace and quiet, at least for a  
while. There was a bottle of blood up there with his name  
on it, and they were going to become intimately acquainted.  
And then his bed beckoned.  
  
***  
  
At one that afternoon, Nick awoke from a sleep full of  
fitful dreams, all featuring Lacroix and pointed objects,  
to the sound of several large men trying to move quietly  
two floors below.   
  
He lay still in his bed, listening intently. At this  
distance and with the intervening floors, all he could hear  
were muted whispers and an occasional thud followed by a  
muffled curse. He surmised the smugglers were moving the  
crates on to their next destination, and none too adroitly,  
at that.  
  
He was glad it was the middle of the day--he had a perfect  
excuse to not do anything. After all, the windows on the  
second floor were uncovered, so he couldn't possibly  
intervene in the smugglers' activities. No, he had to stay  
safe in his nice, dark, protected apartment and let the  
UNCLE agents take care of it, just like Solo had said they  
would.  
  
He lay still for another five minutes, then sighed. He  
supposed he should call the number Solo had given him, just  
in case the agents on duty across the street hadn't noticed  
he had company.  
  
He dragged himself out of bed to the phone and dialed the  
number. The same bored female voice answered. "Whaddaya  
want?"  
  
"This is Nick Forrester," he said. "Please tell Mr. Solo my  
temporary tenants have come to pick up the merchandise. It  
sounds like there are three of them."  
  
This time she did snap her gum. "Okay," she said, and once  
again hung up the phone with a bang.  
  
Nick climbed back into bed. He felt like death--or rather,  
more like death than usual--and if his dim memories of  
mortal life were anything to go by, he was developing a  
headache.   
  
Though he tried not to, he couldn't help but listen to the  
activity from below. He categorized the various noises:  
wooden crates being shoved across the floor...wheels  
squeaking...grunts of effort, then the thud of wood on  
metal...a muted crash, and a male voice saying loudly,  
"They're marked 'fragile' for a reason, idiot! Be  
careful!"...the creaking whine of the freight elevator...a  
truck door slamming shut...the chugging of a diesel engine.  
  
Then blessed silence once again.  
  
***  
  
Illya and the two agents who had been maintaining  
surveillance on Nick's warehouse followed the truck  
carrying the XCS-112s. Their nondescript gray delivery  
truck stayed a respectful eight blocks behind it as it  
wound through the streets of Brooklyn. The pursued and the  
pursuers eventually found themselves in the thick afternoon  
traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike, heading south.   
  
"The last time I did this," Illya announced to no one in  
particular as he monitored the blips on his tracking  
screen, "I ended up in a motel with bad food and an  
airplane on the roof. I hope this ends up more happily. Or  
at least somewhere with a better sense of aesthetics."  
  
Agent Graham, who was driving the van, said, "Well, I don't  
know about motels with airplanes, but I can vouch for these  
guys' poor sense of aesthetics." He pointed. "We're exiting  
at Elizabeth."  
  
Illya looked up from his screen. He could just see the  
truck disappearing around the bend of an exit marked 'Port  
of Elizabeth.'   
  
"The motel with the airplane is beginning to look good," he  
muttered, and returned to his monitoring screen.   
  
Elizabeth was a grimy industrial town across the river in  
New Jersey, just south of Newark. Its petroleum refineries  
and chemical plants covered the area in a pall of black,  
brown, and more exotically-colored smoke. The port itself  
was crowded with tankers and cargo ships bobbing in its  
greasy, odorous waters.   
  
The agents briefly lost sight of the truck as it twisted  
through the dirty warehouses surrounding the docks, but the  
tracers added to the XCS-112s pointed them in the right  
direction. They caught sight of the truck again just as it  
pulled onto a dock where a small cargo ship was berthed.   
  
They pulled over out of sight behind an adjoining  
warehouse. Illya instructed, "Stay with the van. I'm going  
out for a closer look."  
  
He sidled around the corner of the warehouse and concealed  
himself behind a convenient pile of what looked like  
telephone poles. From his vantage point, he could see the  
truck and the stern of the cargo ship.   
  
The smugglers were loading the crates in a cargo net when  
he took out his communicator, opened it and said quietly,  
"Open Channel D." There was a brief hum of static, then  
Waverly's voice sounded through the tiny speaker.   
  
"Waverly here."  
  
"This is Kuryakin, sir. I think we've found the transport  
out of the country. The crates have been taken to a cargo  
ship called the 'Arne Carlson' at the Port of Elizabeth.  
The ship is Liberian registered. They're loading the crates  
now."  
  
"Very good, Mr. Kuryakin. Just a moment, please." There was  
a pause of several minutes, during which time the last  
crate was loaded onto the deck. "Mr. Kuryakin?"  
  
"Here, sir."  
  
"The 'Arne Carlson' is owned by a British holding company,  
General Imports, Ltd., which Section 4 informs me is also a  
THRUSH front. It is scheduled to sail tomorrow morning for  
Amsterdam. According to its declarations to the Port  
Authority, it is carrying sheet metal, bicycle parts, metal  
cable, and radios."  
  
Illya said grimly, "It appears to be carrying some extra  
parts now."  
  
"Well, you'll have to do something about that, won't you?  
Perhaps you had better make some plans with Mr. Solo."  
  
"Right away, sir."  
  
With that Illya slipped back to the van and told the two  
agents what he had seen. "So we go back to Brooklyn," he  
concluded. "Graham, you stay here and keep an eye on the  
ship. Stay in contact. We'll be going after the XCS-112s  
tonight."  
  
***  
  
Nick was still trying to go back to sleep an hour later  
when there was a thunderous knocking at his door.   
  
He dragged on his robe and threw open the door with a bang.  
"What?!" he snarled.  
  
Solo stood on his doorstep, his fist raised for another  
round of door knocking. His mouth was slightly agape at the  
sight of Nick dressed in black silk pajamas and a red  
brocade dressing gown, barefoot, bleary-eyed and irate.   
  
"Uh," he said, nonplussed, "I just wanted to tell you that  
the crates are gone..." His voice trailed off at Nick's icy  
stare.  
  
"I know. I called you, remember?"   
  
"Yes, well, I just thought you would want to know.  
Officially. That they're gone, that is."  
  
Nick took a deep cleansing breath and forcibly calmed  
himself. He knew his eyes were just *this* far from flaring  
gold. He fought down the urge for a mid-afternoon snack.  
"Thank you. I suppose someone is following them, right?"   
  
"Yes, Illya and a team of agents is following them with the  
tracers."  
  
"And this will lead you to the other hijacked shipments,  
correct?"  
  
"That's what we think, that they're going overseas  
together."  
  
"And then you'll get them all back, and you won't need to  
bother me any more?"  
  
Solo nodded cheerfully. "That's the plan."  
  
Nick nodded once, decisively. "Fine. Good-bye." He shut the  
door in the agent's face.  
  
***  
  
Solo blinked at the now-closed door, shrugged, and went  
back down the stairs. *Try to be polite,* he thought to  
himself, *and what happens? They slam the door in your  
face. That's gratitude for you.*  
  
His communicator warbled. "Solo here," he answered when he  
had extended the tiny antenna.   
  
"Napoleon," said Illya's voice, "the devices are being  
shipped out tomorrow morning on a cargo ship docked in  
Elizabeth named the 'Arne Carlson.' It looks like all  
fifteen crates are aboard."  
  
"Hmmm. I suppose we better do something about it."  
  
"Strangely enough, that's what Mr. Waverly said. I'm en  
route back to Brooklyn now--I'll meet you at the warehouse  
and we can make some plans."  
  
"Okay. See you in an hour or so. Solo out." He pocketed his  
communicator and headed back for their stakeout in the  
warehouse across the street, formulating plans as he went.  
  
***  
  
Nick listened to the agent's footsteps go down the stairs.  
*Try to help someone out,* he thought to himself, *and what  
happens? They wake you up in the middle of the night to  
tell you something you already know. That's gratitude for  
you.*  
  
Suddenly he heard a strange warbling sound. The footsteps  
paused and then Solo said, "Solo here."   
  
Nick eavesdropped shamelessly on the conversation between  
Solo and his partner. *So that's where Lacroix is  
collecting the stolen electronics,* he thought. It didn't  
seem to be his style, somehow--in the old days, Lacroix  
would have shipped the crates on the swankiest passenger  
liner crossing the Atlantic available. But perhaps THRUSH  
had a say in this arrangement.   
  
Whatever the arrangement, if the UNCLE agents were planning  
to try to take the electronics back tonight, they might  
come up against Lacroix. And in spite of their confidence  
in their abilities, Nick knew they were no match for the  
ancient vampire.   
  
No, Nick would have to get there first and try to even out  
the odds. He took a moment to feel aggrieved and irritated,  
but then started formulating plans for this evening.  
  
***  
  
Shortly after sundown that evening, Nick, dressed in black  
jeans and a black turtleneck, took to the air and headed  
south. If he was fortunate (and he wasn't counting on it),  
the UNCLE raid would go off uneventfully and he could stay  
hidden in the background. And if Lacroix were present,  
well, perhaps he could distract his master long enough for  
the mortals to retrieve their stolen goods.  
  
Perhaps.  
  
Nick hated flying over central Jersey. The industrial  
smokestacks littering the landscape spewed out so much crud  
it was like flying through clouds of hot, stinging insects.  
When he finally touched down among the docks of Elizabeth,  
his face was streaked with smuts and his clothing stank of  
petroleum byproducts.   
  
He approached the Arne Carlson silently on predatory feet.  
His reaction this afternoon was correct--it was a filthy,  
unprepossessing ship, its hull rust-streaked and peeling.  
Definitely not Lacroix's style at all.  
  
He levitated and flew an aerial reconnaissance around the  
ship. He could detect no motion on deck, but his hearing  
picked up six mortal heartbeats amid the creaking and  
clanging of the old metal hull. The crew must be  
below decks. He took up a concealed position near the  
forward smokestack and settled down to wait patiently for  
something to happen.  
  
An hour later, he saw ten black shapes moving stealthily  
towards the ship, six from the water, four from the dock.  
The UNCLE commandos silently boarded the ship and spread  
out across the deck, covering all the hatches and doors.  
  
There was no sign of Lacroix. Nick extended his senses to  
their maximum but couldn't pick up even the slightest  
quiver in his bond with his sire.   
  
The black figures disappeared below deck, and soon, the  
muted sounds of rubber-soled feet running on metal floors  
came to Nick's ears. From what he could tell, the commando  
raid seemed to be going off without a hitch. He could hear  
the sounds of brief scuffles below decks, but no gunfire.   
  
Nick was just beginning to relax when something streaked  
past him. Suddenly there was a figure standing by the door  
to the bridge. The figure halted, glared up at him, then  
disappeared through the door.   
  
Lacroix!  
  
At full speed Nick leaped from his perch and followed  
Lacroix. By the time he caught up with him, the ancient  
vampire had one of the UNCLE agents by the throat in a  
vice-like grip.   
  
Nick barreled into his master and knocked the hapless and  
by now unconscious agent out of Lacroix's grip. "Leave them  
alone!" he growled, grappling with his elder.   
  
Lacroix broke Nick's hold easily and slammed him into the  
bulkhead with a resounding thud. "I told you, Nicholas, do  
*not* interfere in my business!" His eyes flared red in his  
anger.  
  
Nick leaped at his master, and the two vampires fought like  
wild animals, caroming wildly off the small compartment's  
bulkheads, their fangs flashing in the dim light. Lacroix  
was stronger, but Nick's rage gave him added strength. They  
were almost evenly matched.  
  
One deck below, Solo paused while handcuffing a sullen  
THRUSH operative, lifted his head and said, "What's that?"  
It sounded like a pair of wildcats were fighting somewhere  
on the ship.  
  
Illya listened and shook his head. "I don't know--but I  
think we'd better find out. Berger!" he called, "Watch  
these two!" The agents ran down the narrow corridor.  
  
"This way!" Solo pointed up a ladder. They climbed the  
ladder and pounded down another corridor towards the source  
of the noise, their UNCLE Specials at the ready.  
  
The agents halted at the doorway. There was a confusion of  
flying bodies in the small room. Solo got a brief  
impression of one of the combatant's faces--"This one's  
Forrester!" he yelled, pointing, and tried to draw a bead  
on the other figure, all the while trying to shake off the  
impression of fangs and glowing eyes.  
  
Illya got off the first shot. He hit Lacroix squarely in  
the middle of the back, seemingly to no effect. Solo's two  
shots in rapid succession hit home a second later, and  
finally Lacroix reacted. He suddenly went limp and fell  
bonelessly to the floor, leaving a panting, wild-eyed Nick  
opponentless.  
  
Solo stepped forward. "Forrester! Are you all right?"  
  
Nick turned away, struggling to put on his human face. He  
drew a deep breath, then turned and said shakily, "Yes, I'm  
fine."  
  
"You don't look fine--my God, look at the scratches and  
gashes on you..." Solo put out his hand to steady him.  
  
"No, no...it's nothing. It looks worse than it is..." Nick  
refused his help with an upraised hand. He looked down at  
his master. "What did you shoot him with?" Nothing,  
especially bullets, should have affected Lacroix like that.   
  
Solo held up his gun. "Tranquilizing darts, our own special  
formula. They take effect almost instantly. He should be  
out for several hours, especially since he got hit with  
three of them..." His voice trailed off as a giggle sounded  
from the floor.  
  
Nick quickly crouched beside Lacroix, pulled out the small  
darts, and turned him over. Lacroix flopped on his back and  
looked owlishly up at his son. "Hello, Nicholas, fancy  
meeting you here." He grinned foolishly.  
  
Illya said, "I've never seen this reaction to the  
tranquilizers before. He sounds like he's drunk." He bent  
over Lacroix with clinical interest.  
  
Lacroix turned his eyes towards the source of the comment.  
The slightly out-of-focus gaze roamed blearily over the  
black-clad, blond Russian, then turned back to the  
black-clad, blond Nick. "Another interesting blond one!  
Would you like a brother, Nicholas?" He tried to get up.  
  
Nick pushed down on his shoulders and hissed, "Lacroix! Be  
quiet!"  
  
Lacroix persisted. He looked at Illya and asked, "Are you a  
Crusader knight? 'Cause I already have one of those." He  
lowered his voice. "We're vampires, you know. Shhhhh, it's  
a secret." He turned back to Nick. "Do you think Janette  
would like a matched pair? I should ask her." He looked  
around, a puzzled look on his face, and started calling.  
"Janette! Ma cherie! Janette!"  
  
Nick put his hand over Lacroix's mouth, and over the  
muffled calls said hurriedly, "I think he's having an  
adverse reaction to your drugs. He's obviously delusional."  
  
"Who the hell is he, and why was he attacking you? And for  
that matter, what are you doing here?" Solo asked irately.   
  
Nick looked at him blankly, then hastily improvised. "Uh,  
first off, I followed you from Brooklyn, just to see if I  
could help out. I guess Lacroix found out about where the  
crates were going some other way, and showed up to do the  
same. Unfortunately, we mistook each other in the dark for  
smugglers, and started fighting. It's a good thing you came  
along before either of us did any damage to the other."  
*And,* he thought to himself, *if you buy that one there's  
a bridge I'd like to sell you...*  
  
Both agents stared at him in disbelief. With a sigh, Nick  
applied another mild whammy to reinforce his story. "You  
believe me completely...this is all reasonable to you..."  
  
The agents were staring at him with the typical  
deer-in-the-headlights-just-been-whammied look. Solo said,  
"Of course. Perfectly logical."  
  
From the floor Lacroix started singing a bawdy Roman  
marching song--the one about the senator's wife, the  
one-eyed centurion, the three Thracian slaveboys, and the  
goose. Nick was forcibly reminded that Lacroix couldn't  
carry a tune in a handbasket, and reapplied hand to mouth.  
  
"Was that Latin?" Illya asked curiously.  
  
Nick said shortly, "Classical education." He looked down at  
at his master. "Do you have any idea how long this should  
last?"  
  
Solo answered doubtfully, "Well, usually about two hours,  
but like Illya said, this is a rare reaction."  
  
"Well, I suppose I should get him home." Sometimes filial  
responsibility was a bitch. Nick stood up and hoisted  
Lacroix to his feet, draping his arm around his shoulders.  
"If everything is under control here, I guess we'll be  
going. I'll drive him in my car--it's only a few blocks  
away from here."  
  
Solo offered, "Can we arrange a lift anywhere? We can take  
him to our infirmary until he snaps out of it."  
  
Nick refused. The last thing he needed was Lacroix babbling  
in an UNCLE infirmary, surrounded by doctors wondering how  
he could be alive and planning all sorts of interesting  
tests. The Enforcers would have a field day with that one.  
  
He maneuvered the ancient vampire off the ship by ordinary  
means somehow, aware of the eyes following them down the  
dock into the shadows of the surrounding warehouses. When  
they had turned a corner and were out of sight, he propped  
Lacroix up against a wall and shook him. "Lacroix! Do you  
think you can fly?"  
  
Lacroix opened one eye. "Of course I can fly--I'm a  
vampire, and vampires can fly." He poked Nick in the chest  
with his finger. "You're a vampire--you can fly, too!" He  
levitated off the ground about three feet, listing slightly  
to the left. "Let's go fly somewhere!" He gestured  
extravagantly and started spinning.  
  
Nick hurriedly levitated next to him and grasped him firmly  
around the waist. "We'll go together to my house, how's  
that?"  
  
Lacroix's only answer was to drape both arms around Nick's  
neck and fall asleep.   
  
Nick could see it was going to be a long flight home.  
  
***  
  
Two days later, Solo and Kuryakin were at their seldom-used  
desks finishing up their reports on the XCS-112 affair.  
Solo sat back and said, "You know, we never finished doing  
a background check on that Lacroix character."  
  
Illya looked up and raised an inquiring eyebrow. "I  
thought since it turned out he wasn't involved, we were  
going to forego a detailed check."  
  
"Yeah, well, I don't like to see such a big hole in a  
file," Solo answered. "I just think we should do a complete  
job."  
  
"Well, you'll have to do it on your own time, then," his  
partner replied. "The new budget has been announced, and  
all non-essential investigations are being put on hold  
until further notice." He tossed an interoffice memo across  
the aisle.   
  
Solo scanned the memo and scowled. "In that case, the file  
gets closed with a few details missing. Anyway, there's  
some trouble brewing in Abu Dhabi, and I think our names  
are on it." He folded the memo neatly into a paper airplane  
and sailed it across the office. "We're men of action,  
anyway."  
  
***  
  
That night, Nick sat down at Lacroix's usual table in his  
favorite Greenwich Village nightclub. "How are you  
feeling?" he asked.  
  
Lacroix took a sip from his glass. "Are you referring to  
the after effects of being tranquilized like a wild animal,  
or the thwarting of my business plans?"  
  
"Both, I guess."  
  
"I am fully recovered from the former, and highly  
displeased about the latter."  
  
"I thought as much. It's just as well, though. We really  
don't need another world war, you know."  
  
"It's water under the bridge, now." Lacroix smiled the  
smile that made sensible men turn and run. "They will not  
get their money back, however. It was their incompetence  
that ruined the deal, not mine. My part worked flawlessly,  
notwithstanding your interference--which, by the way, I  
will not forget." Lacroix transferred the ominous smile to  
his wayward son.  
  
Nick met his gaze unflinchingly. "Perhaps I should remind  
you of the consequences of revealing ourselves to mortals.  
I believe the Enforcers take a dim view of that."  
  
Lacroix looked away. "Did I do anything--foolish--while  
'under the influence?'"  
  
Nick failed to suppress a grin. "Well, between offering to  
bring that Russian agent across as a present for Janette,  
singing the song about the senator's wife and the one-eyed  
centurion, and..."  
  
Lacroix raised his hand. "Enough. Let us call it a  
stand-off, then." He looked threateningly at Nick. "But  
next time..."  
  
Nick continued remorselessly. "...and wanting to wave at  
the diners through the windows of the restaurant at the top  
of the Empire State Building, and..."  
  
Lacroix flinched. "I surrender--this time."  
  
Nick grinned and left.  
  
***  
  
Back in his warehouse, Nick reflected on the previous week.  
He thoughtfully sipped his glass of bloodwine and ticked  
off the things that, in spite of everything, had gone  
right.   
  
He had successfully thwarted his master in one of his  
nefarious dealings--surely a day to mark on his personal  
mental calendar. He had prevented some bad people from  
doing mischief. He had, perhaps, done a little to prevent  
another world war.  
  
It felt good to work on the side of law and order again,  
almost like his stint as a cop in Chicago those twenty  
years or so ago. He thought about what his next career  
would be, when he felt able to interact with mortal society  
once more on a regular basis.   
  
Perhaps the police again? He finished his glass of  
bloodwine and took it to the kitchen to rinse out. Would he  
like to enforce mortal laws on a daily basis again? Fight  
the garden variety of evil--murderers, kidnappers, and drug  
dealers--all the while combating the extraordinary evil  
within himself? Could he stand the constant  
self-examination that choice of profession would surely  
bring him? Could he tolerate being so close to spilled  
mortal blood, to the raging emotions of the victims,  
without snapping?   
  
As he put the glass neatly in the overhead cabinet, he  
reached the only answer he possibly could.  
  
Nah. Not in a million years. Never again.   
  
Let someone else do it.  
  
Finis  
  
====================  
  
Nancy Kaminski  
nancykam@mediaone.net  
  
  



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